Purgatory
by navigatio
Summary: Immediately after he falls off the roof, Sherlock has to deal with the consequences of his decision. It's not quite as easy as he anticipated. And Molly? She's just along for the ride.
1. The Excommunicate

Author's Note: The chapter titles are based loosely (Ok, very loosely) on Dante's "Purgatory". Never heard of it? Don't worry, it's just the chapter titles.

Disclaimer: Insert standard disclaimer here

Purgatory

By Navigatio

Chapter 1: The Excommunicate

Molly would find it amusing, under other circumstances, to listen to Mycroft Holmes dismantle his little brother so thoroughly, but just now she is finding it quite annoying. Sherlock just fell off a roof, after all. Everyone thinks he is dead. So if Mycroft would just. . . get on with it. Whatever IT is. Whatever their great plan is, that Sherlock hasn't seen fit to let her in on. Yet.

She can't hear everything Mycroft is saying, just snatches here and there, when he raises his voice for emphasis, but the attitude, and authority, behind the words are unmistakable.

Finally the tone in Mycroft's voice indicates that his lecture is winding down. Sherlock hasn't said a word throughout, just sits on the exam table and stares at his hands, which concerns Molly. Not that she is going to say anything to Mycroft. She certainly isn't going to tell him to stop badgering Sherlock and please leave her morgue. She has to admit, privately, that she finds Mycroft terrifying. Sherlock uses words to take her apart, but with Mycroft, just one sideways glance and she can feel herself turning into a pile of goo.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Mycroft's assistant coming toward her, head bent over her phone as she walks. Molly is tempted to shove an obstacle in her path just to see what will happen, but of course she doesn't. The woman is carrying a black gym bag, which she holds out to Molly without looking up.

"Car's coming in thirty minutes," she remarks to her phone, leaving Molly wondering whom she is talking to. When Molly doesn't take the bag, she finally looks up. "Junior's things," she says impatiently.

"Excuse me? Who is Junior?"

The woman jerks her head in Sherlock's direction. "Just have him cleaned up and ready to go in thirty minutes. The driver will knock at the back door."

You're. . . leaving?"

Mycroft brushes past her on his way to the door. "Yes. With. . . the body, of course." He favors her with a tight smile. "The casket has already been loaded."

Molly finally takes the bag from the assistant's outstretched hand. "And where is Sherlock going?"

"Miss Hooper, you know what you need to know. Please help my brother get ready. We will take care of the rest."

And with that, he walks away, turning one last time at the door to contemplate the silent figure sitting with his back to them. He breathes out in a huff, whether in disappointment or impatience Molly can't tell. And then they are gone and she is alone with Sherlock. Alone. With Sherlock. Oh, God, what is she supposed to do now?

She chews on her lip for a moment, watching him. "Sherlock?" she says finally.

No response. Shit

She tries again. "Sherlock, it's time to get ready to go." Go where, she wonders, but doesn't ask. Still no response. What now?

Molly looks down at the duffel in her hands. 'Junior's things", huh? She wonders what's inside. Still chewing on her lip, she decides to find out. She opens the bag and finds clothes—jeans, hoodies in gray and black, t-shirts in a variety of colors, a striped jumper, black Converse trainers—it's all so thoroughly. . . Not-Sherlock that she winces. She is having trouble imagining him kitted out like this. Making a face, she pulls together an outfit for him and approaches him hesitantly.

"Sherlock? Here are some clothes. You can—um—clean up here, or go take a shower if you want. . ."

He takes the pile of clothes from her hand, automatically, without looking up. She waits, but he doesn't get up. If she didn't know better, she would think he is . . .traumatized or something. But not Sherlock. He wouldn't fall apart. He can't—She backs away uncertainly, as if he is a snake that might suddenly strike. She almost wants him to strike. It would be more like him, as this silence seems so wrong.

Not knowing what else to do, she starts tidying the morgue, banging cupboards as she puts supplies away, spraying down the exam tables. After five minutes she can't contain herself.

"Sherlock, honestly, you need to get ready to go. Do you—do you—need some help?"

"No," he says shortly. He scoots off the exam table and shrugs off his coat, then his jacket. He is moving carefully. She thinks maybe he is hurt, but she doesn't dare ask that. He holds the coat and jacket out to her without looking at her. "Give those to—to John," he says, then tacks on, "please."

She takes the clothes and just holds them, stupidly. Oh, God, John. I have to see John. I have lie to John, she thinks. I don't think I can do that.

Now he is fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, and she becomes aware that his hands are shaking. He clenches his right hand into a fist and then shakes it out, grimacing.

"Stupid buttons," he mumbles. "Can't seem to—" He breaks off and stands with his eyes closed, lips pressed tightly together, both hands balled up tightly.

She doesn't repeat her offer of help, knowing he will refuse, but he surprises her by saying, "Molly, can you undo these buttons?" and then again, the tacked on "please?" She wonders if Mycroft "reminded" him to use his manners. It wouldn't surprise her.

"Oh. Um-ok." She drops the coat and jacket onto an exam table and goes over to him. His gaze is fixed on a point over her left shoulder. She tries to figure out how to unbutton his shirt without actually touching him, but soon gives up and decides just to get it over with as quickly as possible. As soon she has all the buttons undone, he tugs off the shirt, again a bit too carefully, and deposits it into her hand with a muttered "thank you." She catches a glimpse of a dark bruise along his shoulder and side before he brushes past her and heads to the sink, where he starts washing the blood off his face and neck. It's his own blood—Molly drew it the previous day; she was so nervous she almost missed the vein.

As she heads toward the cupboard to fetch a personal effects bag for John, her mobile rings. She hastily fishes it out of her pocket and sees an unfamiliar number on the screen. She answers, hesitantly. Posh voice, snobby tone. It's Mycroft. How does he know her number? Well, apparently knowing everything runs in the family.

"Ah, Miss Hooper. How is my brother doing?" He asks without preamble.

"Um, well, not good, I don't think."

"You don't think? Is he getting ready to go?"

"Well, yes, I guess. I mean. . . it took a while, but he is getting ready now. Sort of."

"And his emotional status?"

"I think—" she sneaks a glance at Sherlock; he is washing the blood off his hands, his back still to her. She doesn't think he can hear her, over the running water, but she moves to the other side of the room anyway. "I don't know—he's not shouting or—or throwing things, but I think he's upset. I mean, his hands are shaking, I had to help him with his shirt buttons, and he's not saying much. That's sort of not like him."

"Hmm, indeed." There is a pause on the other end of the line. Just as Molly is contemplating what else she can say, Mycroft speaks again. "Change of plans. You're going with him."


	2. Samson loses his strength

**Disclaimer: Insert standard disclaimer here**

**Purgatory**

**By Navigatio**

**Chapter 2: Samson loses his strength**

"Go with him? What? Where? But—but—" Molly splutters.

"Just for tonight. I will tell my driver to stop on the way and feed your cat. He will pick up an overnight bag for you." Mycroft's voice is carefully neutral, probably meant to be reassuring. Molly is not reassured.

"But—feed my cat? You don't have a key. . ."

"That will not be a problem. The driver's name is Alex. He will come to the back door of the morgue in one hour. He will say he requires a signature to deliver a parcel. Please verify his identity before letting him in."

"Um—Where are we going? What am I meant to do?"

"Just go where the driver takes you. Stay with Sherlock. Keep an eye on him. Oh, and Miss Hooper?"

Something else? She responds faintly, "yes?"

"Cut his hair."

"WHAT?"

"It's too recognizable. Something short and anonymous, please. My people will ensure you are not interrupted." Mycroft clicks off without saying goodbye, leaving her spluttering into the phone. She drops the mobile into her pocket and turns around to discover that Sherlock is right behind her, holding out the clippers she uses to shave cadavers. She can't help it. She squeaks in near-panic.

"You know how to use these. I need a haircut."

"You—you do?"

"Yes. It's too recognizable."

"Oh—oh. That's what. . . "

"What?"

"Never mind." She takes the clippers from his hand, noticing as she does so that his cheek sports a purple-black bruise that had been hidden under the blood. She blinks at it for a second.

"I'm fine," he spits out, a bit too harshly. "Just cut my hair."

She looks down at the clippers in her hand. She can do this. She can cut hair. "You don't want this blade. You'll be completely bald." She crosses to the cupboard and digs out several different blades, numbers three through five. She needs blade six, but it is not in the box. "Sit on that stool."

"What did Mycroft want?"

"Hmm?"

"On the phone." His voice sounds irritated. "What did he want?"

She pauses in her task of searching the cupboard and looks at him. He is perched on the stool, arms crossed, a scowl twisting his face.

"Oh. Um-He wants me to—I mean, he suggested—"

"He wants you to go with me." He grimaces in what looks like distaste, or maybe pain. "That's probably a good idea."

Huh? "You think so?" she falters.

"Mmhmm."

She scoops up the blades (number six finally being located) and a towel, grabs her scissors out of a drawer under the exam table, and goes to him. When she gets close, she gets a better look at the damage to his torso: a dark contusion spreads across his shoulder and down his side. He follows her gaze down to it, and a flicker of surprise crosses his face.

"Oh, that looks rather. . . worse than I thought."

She reaches out to touch the bruise, but he catches her wrist. "Molly, I'm all right. We don't have much time. Just cut the hair."

She sighs, drapes the towel over his shoulders, gently so she doesn't hurt him more. He looks annoyed. "I won't break."

"I know." She fixes her eyes on those gorgeous curls, thinking of the best cut. Longer on the top and front, short around the ears and neck. After a moment of contemplation, she lifts up the front of his hair and spots a cowlick near the middle, so leave that bit longer and it will lay down better. His hair is sticky with congealed blood, damp around the front and sides from when he washed his face.

She snaps on the longest blade and gets started with the front. Curls hit the floor. Don't think about it being Sherlock, she reminds herself. Don't think about running your hands through Sherlock's hair. Think about cutting your little brothers' hair. Think about Eric's hair, or Tommy, or Danny—no, don't think about Danny. But he had the curls.

She is in a rhythm now, switches blades automatically and starts on the sides. Suddenly his voice cuts into her tempo.

"How did you learn to cut hair?"

"Huh?" Concentration lost, she almost nicks his ear, recovers just in time. "Oh," she responds distractedly, pulling his ear down and out of harm's way. "I had three younger brothers and a military dad. They all got haircuts every three weeks. Fade haircuts, high and tight. But I won't do that to you, of course." Realizing she is babbling, she trails off.

"Two."

"What? No, it was every three weeks. . ."

"No. Two brothers. You have two brothers."

She gapes at him. "How do you. . .never mind. You're Sherlock. And you're wrong." She changes blades and moves on to the back so she won't have to look at his face.

"I am? How?" he demands.

"I HAD three brothers. The middle one, Danny, he—er-he committed suicide when he was 17."

"Oh."

Molly has rarely seen Sherlock speechless before. She decides to give him a few more details. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? "By jumping off a bridge."

"Oh, I didn't. . ."

"I had to identify his body, right here in this morgue," she interrupts firmly over the buzz of the clippers. "Anyway, Danny had curls too. Blonde. It was always a shame to cut them off. But Daddy insisted. Danny always begged me to leave it longer, but I knew Daddy would inspect it. 'Regulation, Molly!'" She is babbling again and she knows it, but she can't quite make herself stop.

He is watching her silently as she pauses to check the length. She moves around to the other side. "How about you?" She blurts out, to fill the silence. "Did you have short hair or longer, when you were a child?" It's hard to imagine Sherlock as a child, but he must have been, once. She thinks he must have been adorable, and completely insufferable.

There is a pause, a few seconds longer than she expects. His eyes are distant. Finally he replies, "Father and Mum had arguments about my hair." She can barely hear him, over the noise of the clippers.

"Oh, how so?"

"Mum wanted it longer, Father wanted it short. Father always won, of course."

"And you liked it longer." At his quizzical look, she continues. "Obviously. You keep it long now."

"As soon as I was able to decide for myself, I grew it out. No more clipper cuts. Current situation excepted, of course."

"Why do you like it longer?"

"It looks better. Covers the cowlicks, and I suppose it gets noticed."

She has to grin at that. "You like attention." It isn't a question. She snaps the clippers off and sets them aside, picks up the scissors. Nearly done.

"Of course! Doesn't everyone? No one looks twice at a man with an ordinary clipper cut. Like John, for example."

Her grin spreads. She can't help it. She is standing in front of him now, checking to see that the sides are even. He watches her curiously, as if he doesn't understand what the grin is for. "I'd look twice at John," she says nonchalantly. "He's cute."

The corner of his lip quirks up. "I'll have to tell him you—"

He breaks off. The smile drops, his lips press together, eyes squeeze shut. "Oh—John. . ." His breathing hitches.

Watching him, Molly is horrified. She has no idea what to do with Sherlock-in-tears, and it really looks like that is about to happen right now. She slides her hand through the short hair on the side of his head. She's just checking the length. It's not a caress. Really, it's not, she assures herself. Just checking the length.

He leans his head into her hand. A tear escapes from under his dark lashes and spills down his bruised cheek. "The look on John's face. . ." His voice cracks. "What have I done?"

She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do. How do you comfort Sherlock-Effing-Holmes? Usually she is the one in tears after their encounters.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry—" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Molly—don't," he snaps. He takes her wrist and pushes her hand away firmly.

She hurriedly decides his hair is done. When she turns to grab his clean clothes off the exam table, he ducks his head and swipes at his face with his palm. Molly awkwardly shoves the pile of clothes into his hands. "You should—" She clears her throat and tries again. "You should probably shower."

He takes the clothes and heads for the shower without a word or backward glance, which she is grateful for. If he had looked back, he would have seen her watching him. He would have seen the tears in her eyes too.


	3. Those who have sinned against us

**A/N: I suppose I have made Molly a little harder and stronger in this story than she really is in the series. Blame it on the fact that she's upset with Sherlock for what he's done to John. And also the fact that I really want her to be stronger. Don't you?**

**A/N 2: Oh dear, there are people from the UK reading this story. I'd better learn to speak British, quick! Sorry for my errors; I'm sure they are numerous.**

**Disclaimer: Oh, come on, seriously?**

**Purgatory**

**By Navigatio**

* * *

**Chapter 3: Those who have sinned against us**

As soon as he is gone, she sighs, shakes out the towel, and starts cleaning up the hair all over the floor. She almost picks up a lock to keep, but decides against it. What if he were to find out? That wouldn't be awkward at all, Molly, she chides herself.

She is just finished when her mobile buzzes again. When she sees the caller ID, she has to lean against an exam table to brace herself. It's John.

"Hello." Sound upset, not terrified, she reminds herself. Upset is expected. Sherlock is dead, after all.

"Molly, it's John." His voice is ragged and hoarse. Oh, God, John. Don't fall apart, please. Please.

"John—" She can't help herself. She starts crying. She squeezes her earlobe hard, trying to stop. "I'm sorry."

It takes a while for him to respond. For several seconds she can just hear his harsh breathing, then, "Molly, I need to—I need to see him."

"What? No, John, you can't."

"Why not? I want to see his body. I need to see him."

"Mycroft took it—him. He already left. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

John's voice cranks up an octave. "Why did you let Mycroft—That's not what he would have wanted!"

"Mycroft had it all arranged. You know how he is. I couldn't do anything about it."

"Did you do an autopsy?"

"No, the. . . cause of death was obvious."

"But did you see him? He was really—he was really dead?"

"Yes, John, he was dead." The lie slides right off her tongue. Saying it wasn't as hard as she feared, but John's reaction is like a punch to the gut.

"Oh, Sherlock. . ." And then he is sobbing into the phone. Molly squeezes her burning eyes shut, wanting desperately to take it back, to pick up the broken pieces of his heart and stick them back together.

She hears the door to the showers open and close. She wishes she could hold the phone up to Sherlock's ear and make him listen to what he has done to his best friend.

When the sobs die down, she says, "I have his things. For you."

"Mycroft didn't take them?" John's voice is dripping with sarcasm.

"No, he—he said to give them to you. Can I see you tomorrow? I'm tired and I just need to go home."

"I have to go see Lestrade tomorrow. Turn myself in."

"What? Why?"

"I assaulted the Chief Superintendent."

"Oh my God, John, What on Earth. . ?"

"I'll explain later. I can probably get bail. I'll—I'll call you tomorrow."

"John—do you have someone with you tonight? Is Mrs. Hudson there? Or your sister?"

"I'm all right, Molly. I just need some time. I promise I won't. . . do anything rash." John's voice sounds so exhausted, wrung out with emotion.

"Call me tomorrow. I'll meet you wherever you like."

After he says goodbye and hangs up, Molly finally turns to see Sherlock standing near the door to the showers, dressed in the jeans and black hoodie zipped up, short hair still wet, unreadable expression on his face. She is sure he knows who she was talking to, but he doesn't say anything. He just hands her the rest of his clothes. She takes them, even though she wants to shove them in his face, tell him to take care of it himself, that she can't lie to John again. But she doesn't do that at all. She takes the clothes and folds them carefully. As she is folding his coat, she notices for the first time that there is blood on the collar, and on the shirt too. She doesn't know how she feels about giving them to John in this condition.

"Should I have these cleaned? No, never mind, why am I asking a dead man?"

He looks up from tying his shoe. "Wha—?"

She interrupts him. "John won't want them cleaned. He'll want the evidence," she decides, and slides the stack of clothes into the bag. She also decides to ignore the expression on Sherlock's face. That crease in the bridge of his nose, that means he is trying to figure something out. It shows up whenever she does anything out of character. She'll never admit it, but she usually enjoys making him make that face. It feels like the closest she ever gets to winning.

"Molly, what—" Sherlock begins, but breaks off when there is a knock at the back door. Molly turns toward the door, and when she looks back, Sherlock has disappeared, silently. The door to the showers swings shut behind him.

She goes to the back entrance, nervous, wanting—needing to get this right. "Who's there?"

"Delivery, Miss. I need a signature." She can catch a bit of East London in his voice.

"What is your name?" She asks cautiously.

"Alex, Miss."

She opens the door to a slight man, holding a large umbrella against the rain that is continuing to fall. Molly turns to call for Sherlock, only to find that he is right behind her, holding his duffel bag. He doesn't say anything to her on the way to the car, doesn't even hold the door for her. Alex catches the door and holds the umbrella out to protect them from the steady rain, but Sherlock is already halfway out to the car. Molly gives the driver a small smile and follows, walking under the umbrella. She is grateful for the protection, even if Sherlock doesn't seem to care.

Sherlock doesn't speak during the long car ride. He is sitting as far away from her as possible, his forehead pressed against the window. Molly can't think of anything to say, and the time doesn't seem right for small talk anyway, so she sits in silence too, staring out her own window.

They are getting farther and farther from the city center. Molly isn't even sure where they are. She hopes Mycroft has arranged a ride back for her in the morning, because she doesn't fancy the fifty-plus pound cab fare. Finally she spots a street sign. A243—so. . . Chessington?* Honestly? Nothing but country clubs and fancy suburbs round here.

Alex pulls up in front of a medium-sized chain hotel and comes around to open her door, blue duffel bag in one hand, umbrella in the other. A hotel? She has to share a hotel room with Sherlock Holmes? Bloody hell. What has she gotten herself into?

She hears Sherlock's door slam, and then he swoops around to her side of the car, snags the duffel bag from Alex and throws it over his shoulder with his own, takes the umbrella in one hand and holds out his other hand to Molly.

"My dear, shall we?" he says with his best Sherlock-in-full-manipulation-mode voice, a big grin on his bruised face.

She swallows her surprise and flashes him a nervous smile. "Of course, darling," she says in what hopes is a light tone.

He pulls her from the car, a bit harder than is absolutely necessary, and wraps a possessive arm tightly around her waist. She tries to turn around to say goodbye to their driver, but Sherlock mutters in her ear, "Keep your mouth shut and follow my lead." Whatever you say, 'dear', she thinks. Bloody hell.

Sherlock keeps his arm tightly around her all the way to the check-in desk. He even opens the door for her with a flourish. When the clerk asks, "Can I help?" he says, "Stephen Cartwright, Mr. and Mrs." in a voice thick with the west of England, all diphthongs and swallowed consonants. She has to work hard not to do a double take. He sounds just like Lestrade.

The clerk, a very young woman with her hair pulled back so tightly into a ponytail that her face looks stretched and pointy, openly gapes at Sherlock's bruised cheek. Sherlock grins back at her, until she finally gets flustered and her eyes drop to her monitor. "Oh, yes, I have that reservation. Double room ok for you then? Haven't got any singles left, I'm afraid."

"That's fine. The wife kicks in her sleep anyway, don't you, Love?" Sherlock gestures toward the bruise. Molly opens her mouth to protest, but Sherlock's fingers dig into her side, so she settles for what she hopes is a reassuring smile at the young clerk, who is now looking back and forth at the two of them with wide eyes.

Finally the clerk clears her throat, "Well, then, here are your keys." She slides over two key cards, which Sherlock takes and tucks into the pocket of his hoodie. "Andrew can show you to your room." She gestures to a pimply-faced, floppy-haired teenager with a surly expression, who tears himself away from holding up the wall to carry their bags. Sherlock holds Molly's hand tightly all the way down the corridor and up the elevator. At first she is in too much of a daze to analyze anything, but by the time they reach their floor, she has realized that his hand is sweaty and shaking. She gives it a reassuring squeeze, and he looks down at her and smiles what looks like a real smile, eyes crinkling up at the corners. But it drops a bit too soon, and she gets a glimpse of anxiety before he quickly looks away. He is afraid. Sherlock Holmes is afraid. The realization makes her stomach drop.

As soon as they are in their room with Andrew sent on his way, Sherlock drops Molly's hand and heads into the bathroom. She can hear the lock click behind him. Huh.

Molly picks a bed for herself and deposits her bag on it. She looks through the bag and finds pyjamas, an outfit for tomorrow, even her contact lens case and solution. She's not sure how she feels about Mycroft's driver digging through her clothes, but what's done is done. She just hopes he fed Toby the right amount. It's probably too much to expect that he would have cleaned out the litter box too, perhaps done a bit of hoovering. . .

Sherlock has been in the bathroom for over ten minutes, and she still hasn't heard any water running, so what could he possibly be doing in there? Before she can change her mind, she goes to the door and knocks.

No response.

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, thanks, Molly." His voice is clipped and tight, sarcastic.

"Mycroft wanted me to come with you because he's worried about you."

"I don't need a nursemaid, thank you. Or a mother."

"Perhaps a drugs counselor," she mutters under her breath. The room service menu on the table catches her eye, and she suddenly realizes that she is starving. How long has it been since she last ate? She picks up the menu and flips it open.

"Are you hungry?" she calls through the bathroom door, which remains stubbornly closed.

"No."

"Well, I am." She sits down at the table and looks through the menu. After a moment's consideration, she picks up the phone and dials the desk.

Molly orders a salad with chicken for herself, and when the man says, "Will there be anything else?" she eyes the door to the bathroom before responding.

"Yes, please, a bacon cheeseburger with chips."

"What would you like on the burger?"

The bathroom door clicks open and Sherlock comes out drying his hands. "I said I wasn't. . ."

Molly holds up a finger to shush him. "Ketchup, mayonnaise, and lettuce, please. No tomato. And a Coke. Regular, not diet."

The man confirms her order and she rings off with a cheery, "thanks!"

As soon as the phone is back on its cradle, Sherlock jumps in. "Was that for me?"

"Yes." Molly closes the menu and drops it back onto the table. She expects him to remind her that he isn't hungry, but instead the horizontal crease reappears at the bridge of his nose. She suppresses a smile and just gazes at him innocently.

"How do you know I don't like tomatoes?"

"You don't, do you?" She asks lightly.

"No."

"Well, there you go."

His only response is a humph, and then he disappears back into the bathroom. Molly sighs. He is clearly avoiding her; she just doesn't know why.

Picking up a magazine off the side table (BBC Easy Gardening, March 2011), she flops onto her bed. She is bored, but she doesn't dare pull out her phone and play a game. She knows her location can be traced too easily that way.

* * *

***I found Chessington on a map. It sure looked like an area that would have country clubs and fancy suburbs. Let me know if I'm wrong.**


	4. Loaves and Fishes

Chapter 4: Loaves and Fishes

* * *

It seems like a long time before there is a knock on the door. "Don't worry, I've got it," Molly calls out to Sherlock through the still-closed bathroom door.

She opens the door and finds floppy-haired Andrew holding a food tray. She takes the tray from him, deposits a five pound note into his outstretched hand, and sends him on his way. Five pounds is rather more than she would typically give for a tip, but since this is all going on Mycroft's tab anyway, she feels she can afford to be a little generous.

When she turns around with the tray, she finds Sherlock standing behind her, hands on his hips. It startles her so much she almost drops the tray, but he takes it from her hands and sets it on the table with a thud. It doesn't take a world-famous detective to deduce that he's angry.

"You didn't check to see who it was before you opened the door!"

"It was the food. Who else would it be?" She tries to duck around him, but he blocks her path to the table.

"You didn't know that. Don't make assumptions, Molly!"

"Ok, sorry."

Her apology takes the wind out of his sails. "Just—check next time, all right?"

"Yes, all right."

Sherlock steps back and Molly scoots around him to the table, starts setting out the dishes and food. Sherlock is watching her with his arms folded, scowl fixed on his lips.

"Sit down," she says.

"I said I wasn't hungry."

"SIT," she says firmly, in her big sister voice, the one that always got her brothers' attention.

To her surprise, he drops unceremoniously into the chair, scowl still in place. What do you know, it worked. She tries, and probably fails, to keep from smiling.

Molly unwraps the burger and holds it out to him. The voice worked once, so she tries it again. "Take a bite."

"Fine." He grabs the burger from her hand and bites off a mouthful. He chews a few times and swallows quickly, then takes another bite, and another.

Molly doesn't want to say anything more for fear the spell will be broken, so she sits down herself and starts fixing up her salad. By the time she has all the toppings on and looks up, half of his burger is gone.

"You know, Molly," Sherlock says around a mouthful of burger. "By the time you add all of those toppings—" He pauses to wash down the bite with a long drink of soda. "—That salad probably has more calories than this burger." He grabs the ketchup bottle and squirts about a half-cup of ketchup over the chips.*

"Mmhmm."

"See here—" He loads up a couple of chips with an obscene amount of ketchup and stuffs them into his mouth, then picks up the packet of dressing, now mostly empty. "This salad crème is over three hundred calories per packet. You've used nearly all of it, probably 250 calories worth." He stuffs more chips into his mouth and sucks down another long drink of soda.

"Probably," she says noncommittally.

"What else have you got on there?" Several more chips disappear. "Croutons, cheese, sunflower seeds. . ." He pokes at her salad with his greasy finger, and she uses her fork to push his hand away. "—And fried chicken. Loads of fat and calories in there."

Most of his chips are gone now, and when he pauses to take another long drink of soda, the straw makes a rattling sound. He has eaten almost the entire meal and drunk the whole cup of soda in less than ten minutes. Molly can't help it—the corner of her lip pulls up in amusement.

He wipes his hands on a serviette. "You're smirking."

"You were hungry."

"No I wasn't."

She snorts. "Then you do a very good impression of a hungry man."

He looks down at his nearly empty plate in surprise and says, "Oh. I suppose so," quietly, as if he hasn't even noticed that he was eating. The spell is broken.

Sherlock leaves the last few chips on his plate and starts pacing around the small space between the beds, back and forth. Molly presses her lips together. This is more like the Sherlock she is used to, but it is no less concerning. She knows he paces when he is stressed, when he can't figure things out.

Making sure to stay out of his way, she clears off the table and puts the tray in the hall, then sits cross-legged on her bed and watches him for several minutes. She isn't even sure he remembers she is there.

Finally he stops pacing and focuses his attention on her. "WHAT?"

She refuses to let the intensity in his voice throw her into her usual dithering. "What's next?"

"Tonight? Do whatever you want! Read, go to bed, whatever! I don't care! Just don't—sit and stare at me."

"I don't mean tonight. What are you going to do next?"

He shakes his head and resumes pacing. "It's best you don't know."

"Sherlock. . ."

"Please—don't ask me. I just need some time to think." He flops down on the other bed on his back, pulls his hood up, and tucks his fingertips under his chin. "I just need to think. Please."

"Ok, fine." she grabs her bag and practically runs into the bathroom. Once the door is locked behind her, she drops onto the closed toilet seat and puts her head in her hands. She isn't sure if she can handle being around him anymore. It's too hard to have him push her away over and over. She can hear her father's voice, telling her she's being foolish, that man's not good enough for my Molly.

Finally she drags herself up and starts getting ready for bed. Putting on pajamas, brushing teeth, washing face, are all done slowly. She's the one taking her time now, avoiding him. She's not sure if she can go to sleep tonight, with Sherlock-effing-Holmes sucking all the air out of the room.

Finally she can't delay any longer. She pauses for a second with her hand on the doorknob, looking at herself in the mirror. Her hair is down, face clean, her eyes don't look too red. "Oh, why should I care what I look like?" she mutters to herself. "He won't even notice anyway."

She comes out of the toilet quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but finds him curled up on his side on top of the covers, facing toward her bed, hands tucked under his arms, sound asleep, still in his jeans, hood thrown back.

"Oh." The bedside lamp is still on, and in its soft light his face looks impossibly young. The short tousled hair only accentuates the effect, making him look like a child, innocent. The dark bruise on his cheek stands out starkly against his pale skin.

With a sigh, Molly crosses to the closet and pulls out an extra blanket, which she opens and tosses over him. He doesn't move. She snaps off the light and crawls into her own bed.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," she whispers into the darkness. For a long time she lays very still and listens to him breathe.

* * *

*Don't you Brits try to tell us you don't do this with the ketchup on the chips. I've seen you, and it's disgusting. ;-) Not that we Americans don't have plenty of disgusting habits too.


	5. Forgive us our sins

A/N: This chapter is a little darker. Don't shoot me.

Disclaimer: Insert standard disclaimer here

Purgatory

By Navigatio

* * *

Chapter 5: Forgive us our sins

She must have eventually fallen asleep, because she is awakened hours later by the sound of Sherlock thrashing around in his bed, calling out in a strangled voice, "No, John! John!" And then, more quietly, almost a groan, "John. . . please don't. . ."

She fumbles for the switch to the bedside lamp. "Sherlock?"

He sits up with a gasp and scrambles to the far side of his bed, dragging the blanket with him. He sits on the edge of the bed, curled over with head in hands, and starts rocking back and forth jerkily, crying hard.

If Sherlock-holding-back-a-single-tear was horrifying, then this—this is Sherlock-full-on-messy-crying, complete with heaving shoulders and deep, choking sobs that shake his whole body. He is falling to bits right in front of her eyes. It should have been terrifying. But she is Molly-who-held-the-family-together-when-dad-died. She knows what to do when people fall apart. You put them back together.

Molly climbs out of bed and goes to him, kneels on the mattress beside him. She knows how Sherlock feels about being touched, but she also knows that he needs contact. She wraps her arms firmly around his trembling shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace, wrapping him up securely, the way he always wraps himself up in his coat. Instead of pulling away, he turns toward her and buries his face into her neck, his fingers clutching fistfuls of her pyjama top. He is repeating "John. . . John. . ." over and over through his sobs. Then, in a hoarse whisper, "He's never going to forgive me. . ."

Molly's stomach clenches at the despair in his voice. She doesn't know what to say. She is afraid he might be right, actually, but she can't say that to a broken man. Instead she slides her fingers into his hair, and this time it is a caress. Her palm presses against the back of his neck.

After a few moments, he pulls away from her and grabs her upper arms in a tight grip that almost hurts. He is staring into her eyes with an intensity that frightens her, as if he is trying to read her thoughts off the inside of her skull. Maybe he is.

Finally he chokes out, "Why are you here?"

"Mycroft asked me-"

He cuts her off. "Why did you agree? Why do you want to help me?

"You needed me," she replies simply.

"But why would you care?" He spits out every word. "Why not leave? Everyone else does."

Tears spring to her eyes. "Oh, Sherlock, is that what you think?"

He doesn't respond, just continues to stare at her intently.

"I'm not planning to leave you," she says.

Suddenly he pulls her in and kisses her, hard, on the lips. She can taste the salt from his tears. He is still trembling. Then his hands are fumbling with her pyjama top. She knows—KNOWS—this is a bad idea. A Very Bad Idea. But she can't quite bring herself to tell him to stop.

His touch is rough, clumsy—he is clearly inexperienced, but she feels her body respond anyway, even though her brain is screaming at her what a Very Bad Idea this is. She knows that if she grabs his hands, pushes him away, that he will stop, and she will never get this chance again.

It's over quick, and Sherlock immediately slides off the bed and escapes to the bathroom, leaving Molly wondering what the hell just happened. Did she just have sex with Sherlock-Effing-Holmes? Bizarre. Not exactly the romantic moment she had imagined.

A moment later, she hears the shower running. Ok, now he's taking a shower. Huh. She cleans up and rearranges her pyjamas, then stands with her hands on her hips, looking at the beds. Should she climb into his bed and wait for him to come back? Or should she just get back into her own bed? She's not sure he would want to share a bed with her, no matter what. He's not exactly the snuggling type as far as she can tell. What would that be like, anyway? Being snuggled by Sherlock Holmes? The thought makes her giggle, a little hysterically. She quickly suppresses the giggles and climbs back into her own bed. Better to let him decide. If he ever comes out of the bathroom, that is. The shower is still running when Molly finally falls asleep.

When she wakes up, Sherlock isn't in the bed. He isn't in his bed either. Looking around, she is startled to find him sitting in the chair by the table, staring at her, still dressed in the clothes he had been wearing the night before. His eyes are dry but rimmed with red, and there is a fine layer of dark stubble along his jaw.

"Oh, er—good morning."

She gets a grunt in response. Okay, she supposes that's better than nothing. Still she is confused. Did that actually happen last night? Or was it some kind of crazy dream? She isn't sure which she would prefer.

Molly gets out of bed, snags her duffel bag off the floor, and edges past him to the bathroom. He doesn't move, but his eyes follow her. She can feel them boring into her back as she enters the bathroom. She carefully locks the bathroom door, and then showers and gets dressed. When she is finished, she takes a long look at herself in the mirror. They have to have a conversation about what happened. She knows they do. Sherlock doesn't seem to be in the mood to talk, but she can't just let it rest. She has to know—what's going on, what to expect, what that meant. She is more confused and off-balance than ever with him, and that's saying a lot. She needs an explanation. Setting her shoulders, she heads for the bathroom door and opens it before she can change her mind.

She exits the bathroom to find Sherlock pacing again, back and forth in the small space again between the beds. His eyes are on the carpet and he doesn't look up at her. Folding her arms, she leans against the doorframe and just watches him, warily.

"What was that, last night?" she asks finally.

He pauses in his pacing and looks at her, as if he is surprised to find her there. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—I mean—" come on Molly, don't blow it now, "What did that mean? Why did you. . .?"

He shakes his head and resumes pacing. After a moment, he says, "You wanted it."

She considers that. "I'm not saying I didn't, but. . ."

He cuts her off. "You certainly seemed to enjoy it. "

"Well, ok, but—you didn't?"

Sherlock stops pacing and stares at her intently. His eyes look a little wild, like a caged animal. Finally he huffs and starts pacing again.

"What does that mean, Sherlock?" She is starting to get angry, but she is determined to control herself, to have a reasonable conversation no matter what. He doesn't respond. Nothing. She tries again.

"Sherlock, please tell me what's going on, because I am completely lost here."

"Oh, don't play that game with me."

"What game? I don't understand!"

"You wanted it!"

Molly sighs. "We're going around in circles here. What are you trying to say?"

He is still pacing. "I was—I was vulnerable. You took advantage."

"WHAT?" Molly's temper is completely shattered. How could he think that? How could he? "I did NOT initiate that!"

He stops in his tracks and stares at her. "You certainly did! You—you—"

Without pausing to think, Molly closes the space between them and slaps him, hard, across his smug, lying mouth. Her hand makes a satisfying crack when it connects with his skin.

She is ready for him to fight back, to grab her arm, but all he does is raise his hand to his split lip, touching the blood with his fingertips. He blinks at her for a moment, and then says in a small voice, "You hit me."

No shit, Sherlock. How did you deduce that? she thinks, but does not say.

"Why did you do that?"

God, how could he not KNOW? How is it possible that Sherlock-Effing-Holmes, world's greatest detective, could not deduce what his words have done to her? Molly makes a frustrated noise through her clenched teeth. She grabs her duffel bag from the bathroom and starts throwing her belongings in it, furiously.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm packing," she spits out through her teeth.

"Why?"

She pauses in her packing to look at him, and finds that the horizontal crease has appeared between his eyebrows. This time it doesn't feel like winning. It feels like losing everything.

In a fury, she tosses the last of her belongings into the duffel bag and hoists the strap onto her shoulder. "You're on your own, Sherlock Holmes. That's how you like it, right? Alone." She spits the last word out, trying to hurt, trying to wound him like he has wounded her.

His voice hardens. "Fine. Go. I don't want you here anyway."

Just as she turns toward the door, she catches a flicker of childlike hurt on his face, then a mask of indifference settles into place. He folds his arms tightly and stares over her shoulder.

She sighs, and closes the door quietly behind her. It's still early, and their neighbors are probably still sleeping. Molly Hooper is nothing if not considerate.

* * *

Ok, It's time to tell me how wrong I am, that Molly would never leave him, etc. ;-)

Fire away!


	6. The Late Repentant

A/N: One last angsty, talky chapter to wrap it up, folks.

* * *

Purgatory

By Navigatio

* * *

Chapter 6: The Late Repentant

A week later, Molly stops by the market after work and trudges home the last two blocks loaded down with shopping bags. She has been working back shift, and while she doesn't relish getting home at nearly 1 a.m, at least the shops are empty at that hour.

Mycroft called her once, the day after she left Sherlock behind, but when she said she didn't know where Sherlock was, he rang off without saying goodbye, before she could ask him to reimburse her for the cab ride back from Chessington. He hasn't called her since. She has considered calling him, but she doesn't know what she would say. "I hate your brother; is he all right?" That might not go over too well. And of course she hasn't heard from Sherlock either, not that she would expect to, not after the way they left things.

As she climbs the stairs to her front door, she notices a familiar black car sitting across the street, just outside of the pool of light from the streetlight. She catches a glimpse of the driver—it's Mycroft's man. She considers going and telling him to bugger off, but decides she doesn't have the energy.

She shifts the shopping bags to her arm and works the key in the lock. It sticks, which happens occasionally. Time to get out the graphite again. The deadbolt is unlocked—strange, since she clearly remembers locking it that morning. She thinks perhaps Mycroft's man let himself in today, although why she doesn't know. Or particularly care. If they want to waltz right in, it's not like she can stop them. And they won't find anything anyway.

She pushes the door open with her shoulder and pauses on the threshold. The air inside feels moist; she catches a whiff of her shampoo, and something else. She closes the door behind her, and warily crosses to the kitchen to set down the shopping.

She notices that the bedroom door, which she normally leaves closed to keep Toby out during the day, is open about six inches. Carefully, quietly, she pushes the door open and discovers Sherlock-Effing-Holmes in her bed. Dammit.

He's facing away from her, sound asleep, so deeply asleep that he doesn't move when she stifles her short scream with a hand over her mouth. Toby, curled up at the small of his back, just looks at her through half-closed eyes, purring like a motorboat.

Molly backs out the door and closes it behind her, then stands for nearly a minute with her hand on the doorknob. Why is he here? Does she want him to go? No, she wants him to stay, preferably forever, but she hates herself for feeling that way. She wants to be able to write him off, but she can't. She berates herself for being so weak where he is concerned. She wishes she could just march back into the bedroom and order him out. But she won't do that. Can't do that. Shit.

Still carrying on her internal debate, she goes into the kitchen and starts putting the shopping away. When she opens the fridge, she notices that the chocolate cake she was saving for afters* is gone, along with her Chinese leftovers from last night. Half the fruit is missing from the bowl on the counter. He must have been hungry. She doesn't mind; at least there is no severed head in her fridge. Thank God for small favors.

Absently, she starts the water for the pasta and dumps the sauce into a pan to start heating. While dinner is cooking, she heads into the bathroom to assess the damage. She knows what havoc Sherlock is capable of wreaking on a flat.

She finds his clothes scattered around on the floor, the same clothes he was wearing the last time she saw him, except now they are filthy. Her razor is out on the counter, and there is a ring of black stubble around the sink. Wrappers from plasters litter the floor. Soap is melting on the bottom of the tub. She lifts her bottle of expensive shampoo and discovers that it is nearly empty. Sigh.

She picks up the t-shirt and finds that it is splotched with dried blood, his own or someone else's, she doesn't know. She fetches the stain remover from the cupboard, rubs some into the bloodstains, and tosses all the clothes into the tub to deal with later.

When the timer beeps to let her know her dinner is ready, she portions out half the pasta for herself and leaves the rest for Sherlock. Not that he will eat it.

Molly takes her dish into the living room and eats in the easy chair by the window, laptop on her lap, browsing through news stories to see if she can find any evidence of what he has been up to. There is an article about a counterfeiting ring that had been exposed by an anonymous informant, and another about a hired assassin who had been arrested based on evidence that had shown up at the police station in an unmarked package. Those strike her as highly likely to be Sherlock's work. Another article about a suspected terrorist who was found on the sidewalk in front of NSY, unconscious and bloodied, seems like a possible as well.

As she is reading an article, she sees from the corner of her eye a shadow in her bedroom doorway. Without looking up, she says "There's spaghetti on the stove if you're hungry." The shadow doesn't move. "No, never mind, you're not hungry. You already ate kung pao chicken, two apples and a pear, and a piece of chocolate cake."

She expects a response to that one, but he still says nothing.

Molly finally looks up and squints at him. He is standing in the shadows, slightly hunched over, with an arm wrapped around his stomach. Suspicious, she turns the lamp toward him, and cannot suppress a gasp. He looks awful. There are fresh-looking bruises along his jaw, around his neck, and on his cheek. Plasters cover the knuckles of his right hand. A cut above his eye is just starting to scab over. That one should have had stitches and will probably leave a scar. So the blood on the t-shirt was his, at least part of it. None of the injuries she can see look too serious. With effort, Molly refuses to let herself melt.

"Why are you here?

After a long moment, he responds in a hoarse voice. "I needed a place to sleep."

Molly looks him over silently. The undershirt he is wearing is dingy, but the pyjama bottoms appear to be brand new—blue cotton with an improbable cartoon baby all over them. After a moment she recognizes Stewie from Family Guy. Probably Mycroft's idea of a joke; she doubts Sherlock has any idea who Stewie is. The clothes hang off him—he has lost at least half a stone off his already lean frame.

"Been sleeping rough?" She asks finally.

"I wouldn't call it sleeping, exactly."

"Didn't Mycroft arrange a place for you to stay?"

"I haven't called him since the first night. He—he doesn't know where I am."

Molly's eyes twitch toward the window. "I wouldn't be too sure about that."

Sherlock swears and moves back into the shadows. "He wasn't there when I came in. I'm sure of it. He doesn't know I'm here."

"I usually close the blinds at night," Molly says. She puts her plate and laptop down and closes the heavy curtains over the thin gauze ones. "There. Now what do you want from me?"

Sherlock is rocking back and forth in the doorway of her bedroom. He looks like he wants to pace but is suppressing it. "I don't know, I just—I needed a place to go. I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

She has to chuckle at that one. "It looks like you've been busy," she says, gesturing to her laptop with the last news article still on the screen. "Counterfeiting rings, assassins, what else?"

He quickly shakes his head. "I saw John." His voice is very quiet, and his eyes are haunted.

"What? Where? Did he see you?"

"No. I went to the cemetery."

"Why?"

"I just wanted to see what Mycroft had done. But John and Mrs. Hudson were there." Silence. Molly just waits. "John was crying."

Molly bites her lip. What did you expect him to do? she thinks. Still she says nothing, her silence an invitation for him to continue.

"He said—he said he would never believe I told him a lie."

"Yeah, that's what he told me too."

Sherlock's head pops up, his eyes meet hers. She can't quite read the emotion there. Is it fear? Hurt?

"You talked to him?"

"Yes, I met him for coffee, to give him your things."

"What did he say?"

"He told me what you said, on the roof. But he said he didn't believe you had been lying to him."

"But that's just the thing, Molly. . ." He trails off.

"What?" she prompts.

He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I have lied. I lie all the time. To him, and—and to you. To everyone." He is talking fast, seems to be trying to get it all in on one breath, before he can change his mind. "It's automatic now. I lie without even thinking about."

"What have you lied about, Sherlock?"

"Everything. I lie to manipulate people, to get what I want."

She realizes that he is finally confessing what she has known for years, what she has always wanted to confront him about but didn't dare.

He continues, quietly. "I lie to hurt people, to get them to shut up and leave me alone. I lie to protect myself from getting hurt, to avoid consequences, to. . . hide my feelings. Whenever people get too close, I. . .I push them away. Like I did to you." His face twists, voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Molly. I'm so sorry."

She finally feels her heart melt. Her uncertainty disappears and she quickly scoots out of her chair and goes to him, slides her arms tightly around his waist, her head pressed against his chest. His arms wrap convulsively around her shoulders and she can feel his chin, sharp on the top of her head. His heart pounds against her ear, a little too fast.

"I forgive you," she says simply. "And I'm sorry too, for leaving you like that."

He pulls back far enough to see her face and regards her with a confused expression. "You're apologizing? Why?"

"I handled it badly. I guess I knew you didn't mean it. I was just so angry. . . Anyway, I'm sorry for leaving you."

"But not for slapping me?"

"You kind of deserved that."

"Oh. I suppose I did. Then. . . I forgive you too."

"Good." She leans into him again, liking the reassuring feeling of his heart pounding against her ear.

.

"Do you—want to know what my nightmare was about?"

Molly hadn't been expecting that level of honesty. If anyone had asked her a week ago, she would have said that Sherlock Holmes would never admit to having nightmares, much less be willing to tell her about them. "Hmm?" she responds casually.

"John—John with a gun to his head. His own gun. In his own hand. I couldn't—I couldn't talk him out of it. I woke up just when he pulled the trigger."

"Oh, God. . ."

Sherlock pulls away from her and starts pacing. He can't get far in her small flat. Molly sits down on the sofa and clears off the throw pillows from the spot next to her, an invitation to sit that he doesn't take.

After a moment, he continues, his voice hoarse. "It's been like that ever since. Every time I close my eyes, one of my friends dies. John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. . .You." He finally turns and looks at her, and the pain in his eyes is palpable. "I'm atoning for my sins, Molly. I'm in purgatory."

She doesn't know what to say. What can she say? There is nothing that will fix this. Nothing that will take his pain away.

Suddenly he crosses to the sofa and sits down beside her, perched on the edge like a coiled spring. "I want my life back, Molly." His voice sounds plaintive, lost. "I want to sit in my chair, and drink tea with too much sugar, and play my violin at two in the morning, and annoy—annoy John."

His hands are shaking, and he clenches them tightly into fists as if he can will the trembling away. Molly takes his right hand, gently opens it and presses her thumbs into his palm. She feels his fingers relax and still under the pressure.

After a deep breath, he continues. "When we were planning this, I was only thinking about beating Moriarty at his own game. It was the ultimate puzzle. I never thought how other people would feel. How I would feel."

He focuses his intense gaze on her. "But you must have known. Why didn't you tell me?"

She is surprised. "Tell you?"

"Yes! How it would affect John. Why didn't you tell me?" His eyes are pleading with her.

"You—you seemed so sure of yourself. I couldn't contradict you."

"But I didn't know. I needed you to tell me."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, but I didn't know you needed that. I had never seen you act unsure about anything, since the day I met you. You keep yourself so—so closed off. Unreadable."

"But-but you knew something was wrong before I did. You offered to help me before I even knew I needed help."

She doesn't have an explanation for that. It had just come to her, when she saw That Look on his face. She doesn't know how she knew, she just did.

He continues, filling the silence. "I've always had trouble reading emotions. I can deduce what you had for breakfast, or who you slept with, but when it comes to emotions—I can't predict the effects of my words, not on John, not on you, not on anyone."

Molly says, half-smiling, "The things you say-I thought you were doing it on purpose."

He ponders that for a moment. "Maybe. Sometimes. I try to create a certain effect."

"Like when you flirted with me to get me to give you things in the morgue."

"Oh. You knew about that?"

"Of course. It was pretty obvious. I knew you were just trying to manipulate me."

The crease appears between his eyebrows. "Then why did you fall for it? Why did you let me get away with it?"

"Oh, you don't know? I like it when you flirt with me, so I would intentionally withhold what you wanted to get you to pay attention to me."

"Really? You really did that?"

"Yes. I thought you knew."

The corner of his lip tips upward in a wry smile. "I completely missed that one."

Molly returns the smile, briefly. Then she realizes—if he is in the mood to tell the truth, finally, there are some other answers she wants. She looks away and bites her lip, working up her nerve. "Sherlock," she says finally, "Why did you have sex with me? I want the truth."

He hesitates before answering. "I don't think you want the truth."

"Please. Trust me. It's better to know the truth than believe a lie."

He studies his hands for a moment, then the answer comes out in a rush. "I kissed you because—because you wanted it. I knew that. And I felt like I owed you."

"So that's it? Because you owed me?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not finished. And then I continued because I wanted to. Because-because of the way you touched me. You knew how to touch me. I wanted you."

"What do you mean?"

"Mycroft and John would probably tell you that I don't like to be touched, but that's not true. There are certain kinds of touch that I can't tolerate. Light touch makes me want to crawl out of my skin. But you touched me the right way. Firmly, lots of pressure. How did you know to do that?"

Molly considers. "You like to be wrapped up tight. Your clothes are tight. You always wear a coat or jacket. The scarf, the gloves. Always tightly wrapped."

"You deduced me?"

She is feeling a little uncomfortable. Exposed. "Oh-I suppose so. I just noticed. I didn't feel the need to say it. It was just an observation, it's no big-"

"Molly?" He interrupts.

"Um-Yes?"

"May I kiss you again?"

She grins. "Yes, you may." And so he does. And, oh my, the second time is much better than the first. He even snuggles with her, after a fashion. If you count immediately falling asleep with his back against her. Which Molly decides does, in fact, count as snuggling.

When Molly wakes up, the sun is streaming in through the cracks in the blinds, and she is alone. He has disappeared without even so much as a note. Not that she expected any different. He is Sherlock-Effing-Holmes, after all.


End file.
